Scent of Love
by Kimmychu
Summary: Many years in the future, a son learns about a very tragic event in his father’s past and discovers what love and forgiveness truly mean. A het future story.


**Scent of Love**

Fandom: CSI:NY

Author: Kimmychu

Rating: FRT

Pairing: Danny/? (it's kept mysterious for a good reason!)

Content Warning: Future fic, through the POV of an original character.

Spoilers: Episodes 2x11, 20, 4x11, 13, 16, 19.

Summary: Many years in the future, a son learns about a very tragic event in his father's past and discovers what love and forgiveness truly mean. A het future story.

Disclaimer: The original characters belongs to me, the CSI:NY ones belong to CBS.

**( Oooo …... oooO )**

Author's Notes: I'm deliberately keeping the het pairing of the story a 'mystery'. But, if you've watched the season four episodes listed in the spoilers section above and ya know me, I think you can swiftly guess the featured het couple. ;) This is a writing experiment of sorts for me; telling a story about various CSI:NY characters many years in the future from season four/five through the point of view of an original character. This is the first of about three or four installments, so the story isn't complete yet. Thank you for reading, and thank you for your reviews! I appreciate them always.

P.S.The title of the story is taken from the same name of a beautiful piano piece by Michael Nyman. It's my ambience background music for writing this story.

P.S.S. I am wholly expecting flames from fans of a particular ship, and should there be any, I will certainly be sharing them with others for the LOLs and mockery. Just sayin'.

**( Oooo …... oooO )**

He has a smile like his dad's.

The square bathroom mirror before him is reflecting it in its pearly glory, along with full lips and sharp nose inherited from his mom. His heavy-lidded, blue eyes and the color of his thick, spiky hair, those he also inherited from his dad.

People often comment he resembles his father a great deal, and it's almost always after his face crinkles into that cat-like smile, the one people say is just like his dad's. He doesn't disagree. He inherited his dad's sharp canines as well, and _boy_, in his case, if it hadn't been for dental braces, he'd probably give Dracula a run for his money.

His lips draw further back to reveal both rows of teeth, and he leans forward and growls at his reflection.

"_Ggrrrrr_."

His low chuckle reverberates in the bathroom, the good old family bathroom he's used so many times in his twenty-plus years of life he can tell what's inside it and where everything is with his eyes closed. The only thing that's changed are the tiles surrounding the bath tub. Mom wanted to add more color to the room, to contrast with the black-and-white tiles arranged in swirly patterns on the floor. Mom wanted to change the floor tiles too but dad couldn't bear to have that happen; he liked their 'artisticness' and felt it would be such a waste to knock all them tiles up and ruin a 'good piece of artwork'. ("It's kinda like _Van Gogh_, ya know? Ya remember those paintings I took ya to see at the Met for your school project? Yeah, like those. Gorgeous stuff.")

He's roughly styling his hair with some gel now, spreading the transparent, sticky substance between his palms then running fingers through his hair in swift, habitual motions. When he was a teenager, he'd considered growing his hair long, just once. But then he saw a picture of dad with long hair and he had _never_ thought about it again. Mom had laughed a riot when she saw the photograph for herself, tucked away in an antique photo album his grandmother had given him for his fifth birthday. Grandma (or nana, as he calls her) was adamant that he got to know his dad's family, _his_ family, and if he had to do it via picture albums because dad won't talk, she was fine with that. Dad has his reasons, _good_ reasons and everyone knows that.

Today, there's a whole shelf full of photo albums in the living room, in various sizes and colors and shapes. In every one, there are pages and pages of photographs of his parents, his grandparents (from both sides), and an uncle from his dad's side he never had the chance to meet. He doesn't mention Uncle Louie around dad much. He knows it still hurts dad to talk about him. He had to learn of Uncle Louie's tragic fate from the family's oldest and closest friend, the man whose name he was bestowed.

"Donovan? Donovan, your father's already waiting for you outside!"

Donovan tugs at tufts of his hair one last time then quickly washes his hands in the sink. A few seconds later, he leaps for the open bathroom door, pokes his head past the frame and shouts, "Okay, Ma! I'm comin' down!"

He rushes back to the sink to rinse his mouth. A tiny piece of bacon stuck between his left molars has been bothering him since breakfast. The breakfast itself had been damn good. Breakfast at the family home is _always_ damn good. Mom cooks the best bacon and scrambled eggs. Add dad's omelette masterpiece (as dad likes to call it) and he got what he terms the 'best freaking breakfast this side of Brooklyn'.

Once he removes the irritating fragment of meat, he heads for his bedroom next to the bathroom. It's the same as it's always been; a single bed against a wall covered in posters of his favorite baseball players during his childhood, a wooden study table and cushioned chair on the other side, a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf sagging with age and the weight of dozens of literature books beside the study table. His black laptop computer is on top of the table, displaying a screensaver of his favorite photographs of his favorite people, the people he loves, and a bittersweet smile flashes across his visage at one particular picture.

It's one that had been shot on the day of his graduation from the Police Academy after six months of training. The ceremony had taken place at Madison Square Garden, and he recalls standing in full uniform with a thousand fellow officers, his police cap shielding brimming eyes from the brilliant glare of the theatre's ceiling lights, his gloved right hand raised in the air as he stated the police oath with pride. Daryck Edwards, his blond, skinny best friend of nearly eight years, had been next to him. The guy was all grins and twinkling brown eyes even hours later when they were at his home for the celebratory party with mom, dad, Uncle Flack, Uncle Mac and Aunt Stella and so many other loved ones who'd attended the ceremony.

In the photograph on his laptop's screen, he's standing side by side with Daryck in their brand spanking new police uniforms outside the Madison Square Garden theatre. Their arms are around each other's shoulders and they're grinning at the camera, grinning as if the world was theirs to conquer and nothing could stop them, not even death.

Donovan stretches out a hand and closes the laptop, the smile on his lips faded.

He had to bury Daryck nine months ago. A bullet straight to the heart, the coroner had informed him in the morgue. Daryck was dead before he hit the floor of the bank being robbed. Daryck was twenty-seven years old.

"Donovan?"

He blinks hard. Then he lifts his head and answers loudly so his mom can hear him, "Sorry! I'm just grabbin' somethin' from my room! I'll be right down."

He goes to the bedside table and plucks up his Omega stainless steel watch and clips it around his left wrist. It was a graduation gift from his parents, and he wears it everyday, more for its sentimental value than anything else. All he has to do is glance at it and he'll be thinking of his parents and his memory of them strengthens him while he does what he has to do as a homicide detective in the big city of New York.

His gun, still in its 'inside-the-waistband' holster, is the next object he grasps in hand. It's become second nature to him to carry his gun wherever he goes, even when he's back home for the weekend or he's off duty. Dad always says it's better to be safe than sorry. Never know what might happen the instant you walk out the door.

He stares at the weapon for a minute. Then, slowly, as if it's costing him some effort, he places it back onto the bedside table. Without hesitation, he removes the clip of bullets, rendering the gun useless. He doesn't contemplate much on why he's decided not to bring his gun out today as he stashes the clip in one of the drawers of his study table. He trusts his gut instincts and today, they're telling him that, wherever dad intends to bring him, a gun has no place there.

He doesn't quite know how he's sure of this. He just is.

Donovan snatches his black leather jacket off the bed where he laid it and slips it on as he darts down the staircase leading to the living area. Mom, her long, dark hair tied up in a bun and her brown eyes warm with tenderness, is standing at the base of the stairs. She has a cup of hot tea in one hand and the other is on the banister. She says, "A boys' day out, I see!"

He returns her smile and motions for her to let him sip some of her tea. She laughs softly, brushes at his gel-hardened hair and makes a teasing remark on 'bad habits' he's acquired from his father.

"Aw, Ma, the gel's not bad for my hair," he says, licking his lips after taking a few more sips of tea. "Look at Dad! He's been usin' it for decades and he's still got a head full a' hair."

"Uh _hm_," Mom replies, and they both chuckle good-naturedly. It's an in-joke between them; they know how sensitive dad is about his hair and receding hair line. ("God, look at the size of my _forehead! _I swear, honey, it's gettin' bigger by the day and it's _not_ 'cause I'm losin' hair!")

"Remember what I told you, okay?"

Mom's clasping one of his hands now. She has the hands of a loving mother, small, soft hands that belie the immense strength he knows she has within her. She's taken care of dad and loved him without stipulation, all this time, no matter what's happened. It hasn't always been easy, dad having been a crime scene investigator for so many years, dad having undergone the crazy, traumatic stuff he has on the job. There were good days, very good days, and there were also bad days, terrible days, and it continues to amaze Donovan that the love between his parents has never, ever waned, not even when dad had a breakdown after a ghastly case involving a mass murder of children. That incident, he had to learn about it from Uncle Flack too.

He'd been too young to remember how things were at home at the time but there were certain moments, very clear moments that have remained with him, like mom hugging dad tight on the couch while dad rambled about something very painful in a strange, hoarse voice. Like dad constantly watching him from the porch of the house as he rode around on his bicycle on the front yard, never taking his eyes off him. Like dad coming into his bedroom in the middle of the night to clutch him close in a crushing embrace, rocking them to and fro, weeping into his hair and whispering, "Never, I'll never let anyone hurt you, my son, my boy, _never_," over and over.

And throughout those moments and beyond, mom was always there.

Glancing down at his hand intertwined with hers, Donovan knows she still is, and always will be.

"It's gonna be okay, Ma," he replies in a reassuring tone, giving her hand a squeeze.

In his eyes, mom has the most beautiful smile in the world.

She doesn't say anything. She simply strokes his hair and cheek, and it's as apt an answer for him as any.

After putting on his boots, he steps outside onto the front porch bordered by a short lattice fence. To the left, a white net hammock with a blue pillow in it hangs between the wall and one of the porch pillars. Next to it, right above the lattice fence, are rows of hanging pots and baskets bursting with iridescent trailing geraniums, pansies and roses. Mom's taken up gardening in recent years and the fruits of her labor are proving to be a lovely view to behold.

To the right, there are two rocking chairs, both stuffed with fat pillows and covered by afghan wraps and in one of them sits his father, attired in the usual Henley shirt, jeans, cashmere jacket and boots as old as him. Dad's quietly reading a hardcover book with a portrait of former President Obama gracing its cover. It must be the best-selling biography novel Uncle Hawkes has lent dad for reading 'during his free time'.

Donovan smirks to himself. Heh, dad has all the free time in the world, considering he officially retired from the force a couple of months ago.

"Sorry, dad, were you waitin' long?"

His father's face crinkles into an open, affectionate smile the instant their eyes meet. The transformation of dad's facial features from their somber set to that smile never fails to send him into a silent awe. Uncle Flack once divulged to him that his dad never smiles that way at anyone else, except perhaps mom.

"It's true," Uncle Flack had said to him after dinner many, many years ago, when he was a kid and still discovering so much about the world. "You have no idea how much he loves you, your Pop. If a robber jumped out right now and fired a gun at you, he'd throw himself between you and the bullet and he'd do it again and again if it meant savin' your life, and you better believe it."

Donovan does believe it, every time he sees the happiness in his dad's eyes upon seeing him.

"Nah, I was here readin'," his dad replies, shutting the book then pushing silver-framed spectacles up a prominent Italian nose.

"S'that the biography Uncle Hawkes was talkin' 'bout?"

Dad glances downwards at the book. "Yeah. He brought it over last week, just 'fore he went off for that Europe tour."

"With Uncle Adam?"

"Yeah, they've been meanin' to go for a while. 'Bout time they did, anyway."

Donovan smiled. "How did Uncle Adam put it, it's the 'honeymoon they never had'?"

Dad's laugh is muted, but the warmth in those discerning blue eyes doesn't diminish one bit and Donovan's smile widens. Mom and dad brought him up in a home that has, at all times, been accepting and open-minded. They taught him to think before reacting, to read the lines _and_ between the lines, to look beneath the surface of a person's skin and see the truly important part of them: their soul. So to him, as well as his parents, two people of the same gender in love with each other is as ordinary as two people of the opposite gender in love with each other. Should someone come across true love, who's he or anyone else to say it's 'wrong' when it's none of their business?

It's difficult to find love as it is.

To find the kind of love, the _real_ deal, like the one his mom and dad have?

That's a miracle in itself.

And Donovan is positive his parents realize that and appreciate it every day. He witnesses their gratitude this very moment, in the way mom strides towards dad with a hot cup of tea and the way dad gets to his feet, his soft eyes seeing only his wife of twenty-six years, his adroit, strong hands reaching for her as if he hasn't seen her forever although it's been a half hour at most. It is a scene tremendously familiar to Donovan by now. It is one he contemplates on a lot; in his mind, he is in his father's place while the one who has his heart is in his mother's and it heartens him deeply that, some day, he might have the privilege of experiencing the same sort of love.

The sound of the book dropping onto the floor of the porch is what interrupts the reverie.

"It's a'right, I'll pick it up," he says.

Before his dad can protest, his hand is already clasped around the book and he sets it down on the closest rocking chair, the one dad sat in minutes ago. When he looks up, he sees dad drinking from the cup mom was carrying, a different one than the one he sipped from, and he sees mom smiling at dad like she always does when she's about to caress dad's arms or shoulders.

"There's lots of sugar," his mom murmurs to dad. "Just the way you like it."

And like always, each time mom says those particular lines, dad answers gently, "Wha, a whole _jar_ of it?"

Donovan has yet to inquire his parents about the significance of a 'jar of sugar'. From the touching of their foreheads and the meaningful smiles they bequeath one another, he surmises it's important to them, a secret between two lifelong lovers that only the two of them need to know. It is enough for him that whatever it is, it makes his parents happy to reminisce on it.

Dad kisses mom on the lips in thanks as he returns the now empty cup to her.

"Will you be back for dinner?" she asks.

The question inwardly surprises Donovan. All dad's told him so far is he's bringing them somewhere to have a man-to-man talk, and it's only a little past eleven in the morning. What exactly is it that dad wants to discuss with him that'll take an entire day? Is it what he suspects it is, what mom suspects it is as well?

His parents are gazing at each other. There's a solemnity, a sadness, in dad's eyes that both piques his curiosity and dredges up concern inside him. That sadness has manifested itself upon his father's visage many times throughout the years, typically after a nasty day at work and his dad's unable to leave the horrors he's seen behind and unwillingly brings them home with him in his mind. To see it now, on such a superb, sunny Wednesday morning when all is well and dad will never lay eyes on another gruesome murder scene ever again … whatever it is they're going to do later, it's something dad isn't really looking forward to, something grave.

It _must_ be serious if mom is staying behind at home and choosing not to accompany them.

Mom is stroking dad's right arm with slow, soothing motions. She always does this whenever dad's disconcerted or agitated, and it works every time to dispel the anxiety coiling up within him.

Dad eventually smiles at her and says, "Yeah, we'll be back."

The equally loving smile curving up the ends of her lips indicates her contentment with the response and dad easing up.

"Okay, we should get goin'," dad adds in a more resolved voice a moment later, and mom receives another kiss, this time one of temporary farewell.

On no account does his father ever utter the word 'goodbye' to his mother. Like the 'jar of sugar' enigma, he's never asked his parents why. Again, it was Uncle Flack who revealed the reason behind it: "Your mom was goin' through a really rough stretch and so was your Pop at the time. It got to the point she felt movin' away was the best thing to do and, well … your Pop didn't have much of a say in it. She requested your Pop just say 'goodbye' to her, and that word stuck in his head for a long time afterwards. It became an agonizin' word for him 'cause it was when he had to say it to your mom that he figured out how much he'd fallen in love with her. So when your Pop and your mom got together once more, he vowed he'd never say it to her again, 'cause he'll always return to her. Least that's what your Pop told me."

"Give me a call if there's a change of plans," mom says.

"Sure, sweetheart."

Donovan takes out the keys to his car from his jacket's right pocket after he notices his dad has a set of car keys in hand. Ah, dad's going to drive them in the family's Ford car. Guess his Lexus is staying put in the garage along with dad's vintage Harley bike today.

"Here, mom." Donovan hands her his car keys. "In case ya need to go somewhere while we're gone. You okay with drivin' my car?"

"Yes." Mom pauses. Then, with a twinkle in her eyes, she says, "Don't worry, I'll make sure it gets minimal dents. _Two _at most, I promise."

Donovan snickers. Between mom and dad, _dad's_ the one who has the higher car accident quotient. So much for the stereotype that women are the lousy drivers.

He wraps his arms around his mother in a bear hug, then follows his dad to the Ford. After settling into the front passenger seat and fastening his seat belt, he gazes through the car's windshield at mom who's still on the front porch, leaning on one of the main support pillars. He smiles at her.

_It's gonna be okay, you'll see_, he thinks.

And somehow, mom's read his mind because she nods at him, her eyes as tender and kind as ever.

Dad is unusually quiet for the first few minutes on the road through their neighborhood, Marine Park, that's located between Mill Basin and Gerritsen Beach. In any other circumstances, his father would be chatting about everything under the sun, from recent world news to how the Yankees are doing in the major league to requesting updates on the latest events in his life. But this morning, there isn't a peep out of dad. Like the sadness he detected in dad's eyes earlier, dad's silence is another sign whatever they're going to discuss is no trivial matter.

Dad subsequently humming a random song under his breath dissipates the incongruity in the air to some extent. Donovan's very accustomed to listening to his dad sing. According to mom, as a baby, he would be lulled to sleep by dad playing a guitar and crooning lullabies to him. The moment he could babble and hold a tune, he was right there with dad in the living room of the family home, singing together, amusing himself with the strings of dad's Ibanez guitar and having a jolly time. Dad's singing gladdens him like very, very few things in the world can.

When they're at the corner of Flatlands Avenue and about to turn left onto Flatbush Avenue, Donovan decides to get the conversation ball rolling.

"So, where are we goin'?"

Dad's reply is vague. "You'll see."

Donovan sends his father a sharp glance. He considers pushing the subject, but hastily changes his mind at the sight of his dad's fingers clenched around the steering wheel. Whoa, he hasn't seen his dad grip something so hard that the knuckles are white in a _long_ time.

Perhaps some distraction is due.

"Ya know, it's gonna be so weird when Uncle Flack comes over for dinner this Saturday," he says, and he knows he's done the trick given that dad swivels his head to smirk at him.

"Oh yeah, why's that?"

"Don'tcha think it'll be _awkward_ for me to rant 'bout work when my _boss_ is gonna be sittin' there at the table?"

Dad's cackle elicits a smirk of his own.

"It's weird 'nough as it is to call him _Captain_ Flack now. I'm so used to callin' him Uncle Flack I gotta catch myself all the time at the precinct or people are gonna start thinkin' he's playin' favorites or somethin'."

"The guys there givin' you any trouble?"

"At the precinct? Naw. In fact, they're givin' me their _sympathies_, man."

Dad's already laughing again, and he aims a mock affronted look in his father's direction.

"_Hey_, it's not funny! Do you know Uncle Flack's drivin' me _ten_ times harder than everybody else?"

His rejoinder merely fuels his dad's laughter.

"Yeah, that's Flack for ya," dad says after he's quietened down. "He knows you're my boy and he knows you're _good_ and _more_ than capable of bein' a good homicide detective so of _course _he's gonna drive ya hard. I'd worried if he _didn't_."

"Gee, thanks, Dad," Donovan says in a sarcastic tone, but privately he's beaming. Uncle Flack has been one of the most (if not _the_ most) esteemed officers in the NYPD for as long as he can remember. Responsible for thwarting the biggest drug heist in the city's history, the successful apprehension of _hundreds_ of murderers on an astoundingly impeccable record, earning the NYPD Medal of Honor over fifteen years ago for saving a class of children out on a school trip from a deranged man armed with a machine gun … the list goes on. To hear that Uncle Flack believes in him, believes that he'll become an adept homicide detective, is indeed valued praise.

"And what, two months as a homicide detective and ya got people ya wanna rant 'bout already?" dad asks, and he snickers in reaction.

"Yeah, let's just say there are a couple a' guys I don't mind punchin' now and then."

"S'that right? And does one a' them happen to be lookin' forward to eatin' dinner with us this Saturday?"

Donovan and his dad chuckle together.

"Naw, seriously, Uncle Flack's a great captain. He, ya know, _motivates_, not coerce."

"Yeah, ya work and you're bound to be stuck with co-workers who give ya trouble or drive ya up the wall now and then." Dad makes a humorous face. "Ya know, people like _me_."

Donovan tries to not crack up, but a snort of amusement escapes anyway. "Aw, Dad, you're not _that_ annoyin'."

"Why do I get the feelin' there's a 'but' comin' up?"

Donovan's pleased to see his dad is much more relaxed.

"Well … Uncle Flack's mentioned you bein', in his own words, a 'pain in the ass' back in the day."

"_Oooh_, is _that_ what he told you? I'm gonna have a _word_ with him soon."

Yet again, they're cackling in unison.

"He talks a lot 'bout you, ya know." Donovan says. "Like yesterday, durin' lunch, we got ourselves some hotdogs and he was tellin' me 'bout the time you got stuck in that dead billionaire's … what was it, _panic room?_"

Dad lets out a boisterous laugh. "Hah! I remember that! Lesson of the day, son: Don't press any buttons unless ya know what they're for."

"Or face the consequences of bein' trapped in a panic room with a rottin' dead guy for thirteen hours?"

"Thank _God_ it wasn't thirteen hours. I was already goin' nuts after bein' in there for an _hour_.." Dad shakes his head, a small smile on his lips. "If it wasn't for Flack talkin' to me through the video intercom and divertin' my attention with talk of pizza and what not, I think I woulda started throwin' stuff around the room just for the hell of it."

"Even with the dead guy there and everybody watchin' through the video intercom?"

Dad glances at him, one eyebrow lifted high. "I bet Flack didn't mention me findin' a preserved _human ear _in a glass jar of formaldehyde, did he?"

The ends of Donovan's lips curl in mild disgust. "_Gah_, no."

"Heh. Yeah, it was the cabinet of the panic room's bathroom. I was in there lookin' for somethin' and I opened it up and there it was, this gigantic jar with a floatin' human ear in it."

"Who'd it belong to?"

"The dead billionaire's brother. He was kidnapped from their bedroom when they were just kids, and his kidnappers cut off his ear and sent it to his parents as proof they had him."

There is a minute of weighty hush.

Then, Donovan says quietly, "They never got him back, did they?"

"No. The ear was all they had left of him."

Donovan gazes at his father's profile. He sees the melancholy seep back into his dad's ephemerally buoyant expression.

"At first, when I saw the ear, I was really creeped out," dad murmurs. "I just couldn't get why a guy would wanna keep somethin' like that in plain sight, even if it was his only brother's ear. It wasn't until …"

Dad falters into silence, but Donovan already knows the words that would have rolled off his dad's tongue if dad hadn't sucked in his lower lip. He knows dad is thinking about Uncle Louie again.

Nobody deserves to have their loved one kidnapped from their own home and be returned nothing except a bloody ear.

And nobody deserves to have their loved one beaten to the edge of death by gangsters. Nobody deserves to have the news broken to them that their loved one will never awaken from a deep, brain-dead coma, to realize said loved one will never know how much they're truly loved.

Dad's fingers are clenched taut around the steering wheel once more.

They're halting at another traffic light when dad abruptly releases a heavy sigh and says, "We're goin' to Green Wood cemetery."


End file.
